


Homecoming

by genteelrebel



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Breaking Celibacy Vows, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, Homophobia, Love, M/M, Multi, Romance, Threesome - M/M/M, Voyeurism, virgin!Duncan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-19
Updated: 2015-02-19
Packaged: 2018-03-13 17:43:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3390479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/genteelrebel/pseuds/genteelrebel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Look at it from my point of view.' Duncan gestured angrily at the sky. 'I’m gone for less than a year, and I come back to find the two of you…the two of you…"</p><p>“Having sex," Methos finished. His tone implied that Duncan really should have been able to work that one out on his own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Homecoming

**Author's Note:**

  * For [liz_mo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/liz_mo/gifts).



> Set not quite a year after the events of "To Be, Not To Be." After several months spent wandering the world, Duncan returns to Paris to discover that Joe and Methos are involved...a revelation which promptly causes the Highlander to act like even more of an idiot than usual. Will he be able to get a hold of himself in time to keep his friends? And maybe, just maybe, become something more?

~Paris, October 1999~

Some things never change.

Duncan MacLeod hadn’t been entirely sure what to expect when he walked into Le Blues Bar that night. It had been nearly ten months since he’d left Paris, after all. Ten months since Liam O’Rourke had died. Ten months during which Duncan had done his best to forget all about Paris, and hadn’t so much as written a postcard to either of the two men who had once made the city their home. Duncan wasn’t entirely sure if he’d still find either Methos or Joe living in Paris at all. Let alone what kind of welcome he’d receive if he did.

But then Duncan walked into Le Blues, and familiarity overwhelmed him like a warm embrace. The bar was exactly as Duncan had remembered it, right down to the rich scent of good scotch and the hum of a contented crowd. And the two men he was looking for—one standing behind the bar, one lounging on a stool with a gravity defying-sprawl—met him with smiles that hadn’t changed in the slightest. “Well, well! Look who’s here!” Joe boomed merrily. Methos said nothing, but he raised his glass in silent salute, eyes crinkling with good humor. And that, as they say, was that. Before Duncan knew it, he had a drink in his hand and a barstool under his ass. A few moments later he was laughing at one of Methos’s infamous quips and Joe’s acerbic retort, so much like old times that it was eerie. No, some things never changed.

Thank god Le Blues was one of them.

Neither man asked him where he’d been, or why he hadn’t kept in touch. Duncan supposed they both already knew. All they did was welcome him warmly and go on with the argument they’d been having…something about the historical accuracy of Plato’s writings and how they contrasted with the surviving Watcher Chronicles from the time. Now, Duncan knew his Plato and could have interrupted with an opinion or two of his own, but it was much more fun just to listen. Joe and Methos were both in fine form, wit flowing even more freely than the beer, and the good-natured banter between them was the most entertaining thing Duncan had heard in months. By the time the bar had officially closed and the conversation had shifted to less obscure topics, Duncan’s entire being was warm with much more than the glow of good scotch. He stayed half an hour after closing, then gathered up his coat reluctantly. “I have to go,” he said. “I’m seeing some men tomorrow about getting the plumbing fixed on the barge.”

“You’re planning to stay in Paris for a while, then?” Joe asked. 

Duncan nodded. He saw the relieved, happy look Joe and Methos exchanged when he did, and something that had been sore and painful in Duncan’s heart ever since Liam O’Rourke’s death began to heal. He finished his drink and bid both men goodnight, noting with amusement that Methos was draped over the bar in a manner that suggested Joe would need a forklift to evict him. By the time Duncan had reached the door they were already deep in conversation again, hotly debating whether or not some female Immortal Duncan had never heard of was sleeping with her nubile new student. Duncan shook his head happily, slipped on his gloves, and left.

He was more than two thirds of the way to the barge when he realized he’d forgotten his scarf. Now, normally such an event would not be a major loss by any means, but this scarf had been a gift from Tessa. She’d given it to Duncan right after they’d come back to Paris in ’92, to protect him from the chill Parisian winds. Duncan could still remember the amused, loving smile she’d worn when she’d first tied it around his neck, both of them knowing it was impossible for him to catch cold but also knowing that he’d wear it every day just the same. Duncan looked at his watch. It was nearly three in the morning. Undoubtedly, the sensible thing to do was to go home, and give Joe a call the next afternoon. But the scarf wasn’t something Duncan wanted to loose, and from the way Methos had been arguing his point, Duncan doubted Joe would have had the chance to close up yet. He reversed his steps.

But when he reached Le Blues, the place was mostly dark. All Duncan could see through the grates covering the windows was one low, soft light over the bar…a light which Joe always left on at night. (He’d told Duncan once that with his life he never knew when he’d have to re-open the bar before dawn for a Watcher meeting or Immortal crisis, and stumbling over furniture in the dark in search of a light switch was no fun for a man with no legs.) It looked like Joe had managed to escape early, after all. But the door, when Duncan tentatively tried it, was still unlocked. And he could see his scarf hanging on the coat rack in the far back corner--Joe must have found it and hung it up. Perhaps the mortal bartender was still there, finishing up some paperwork in the back. Duncan pushed open the door and started across the floor.

_“Oh.”_

It was a quiet sound, but in the otherwise silent bar it seemed very loud. Duncan frowned. The sound came again, slightly noisier this time: “Ohhhh.” Instantly, Duncan’s hand slipped to his sword. He scanned the shadows for the noise’s source, and suddenly saw Joe…standing behind the bar with his back to Duncan, his unbuttoned shirt half hanging off his shoulders. Joe’s hands were braced against the bar, and his head was thrown back as he emitted another low groan. He sounded...hurt. He sounded...desperate. He sounded…

Ah.

He sounded like he was having a very, very good time.

Duncan stopped in his tracks, a slow, knowing smile spreading over his face. Well, what did you know. Joe Dawson was actually getting some. Now that he was closer, Duncan could easily hear other noises that confirmed it, all the tell-tale sounds of enthusiastic oral sex. Silently, Duncan had to salute the unknown lady’s technique. Whoever was crouching there, out of sight behind the bar, she obviously knew what she was doing. Still smirking, Duncan gathered his coat more closely around his frame and used the martial arts training of several lifetimes to move silently across the floor. There was no need to embarrass his mortal friend by interrupting him. He’d just creep to the coat rack, get his scarf and go…

And then Duncan heard a voice he knew, melodious and unmistakable. It was speaking teasingly from the vicinity of Joe’s hips. “Like that, do you?” it said. Joe’s head nodded emphatically. “Yes, I thought you might. Fuck, Joe, you’re so hard for me tonight, so juicy. How long were you standing behind the bar with this monolith, anyway?”

Methos. 

Duncan stopped in his tracks, head turning back to the bar as if drawn by an irresistible force. From this spot in the room, the mirror over the bar reflected the whole scene. Joe’s sweaty, worshipful face. Methos’s kneeling form. And the prominent hard-on Methos held cradled in his fingertips. Duncan swallowed. Methos had been right: Joe was indeed very, very hard. In the mirror, it was easy for Duncan to make out every detail: the traceries of veins, the flaring purple head, and the very erect shaft made shiny with saliva. Unconsciously, Duncan licked his lips, and found it impossible to pull his gaze away. Methos seemed to find the sight equally fascinating. He was eyeing the swollen organ eagerly as he lightly teased it with his hands, tracing the crown with one lazy finger. Joe gave a gasp as Methos touched a particularly sensitive spot, then laughed quietly. “Long enough to wish I’d worn larger pants,” he said wryly.

Methos chuckled. “I thought I saw that hand of yours slipping down behind the bar a few more times than was strictly necessary,” he teased. “You couldn’t have needed a clean bar towel *every* time.”

“Well, you ought to know. Conversation with MacLeod doesn’t usually cause you to sit all hunched over with your coat across your lap…fuck!” Methos, wearing a sweetly salacious smile unlike any expression Duncan had ever seen him use, had just bent his head to Joe’s erection once again. He rubbed his cheek against the velvet head with all the apparent enjoyment of a cat chinning its owner’s leg. Joe’s cock jumped. So did Joe. “Fuck,” he said again, more breathily this time. “Love your mouth…want you so bad…”

“Mmmm,” Methos agreed. He turned his head sideways and began to lick his way down Joe’s shaft, causing Joe to alternately groan and swear.

Duncan felt his own breathing speed. He knew he shouldn’t be looking, that he was invading his friends’ privacy beyond measure, but he found it impossible to move his feet. Methos looked so…happy somehow, as if there was no other place on earth he’d rather be, and that sight alone was novel enough to keep Duncan rooted to the spot. If you added the hypnotic patterns Methos’s tongue was painting over Joe’s erect flesh, first using just the tip to tantalize Joe’s slit, then using the flat of his tongue to bathe the whole shaft in long liquid strokes, it was no wonder Duncan found it difficult to move. Joe’s hand closed in Methos’s short dark hair. At any moment Duncan expected him to use it to either force himself more deeply into Methos’s mouth, or else to shove him away and end the torment. But Joe’s hand just stayed where it was, and on his face there was an almost goofy look of tenderness that contrasted strangely with the arousal written there, too. He bent his head down low, murmuring something Duncan couldn’t hear.

Whatever it was Joe whispered, it seemed to have a great effect on the Immortal. A powerful shudder went through the kneeling body. Methos immediately rose to his feet, stripping off his sweatshirt as he went. And then he was in Joe’s arms, the two of them kissing passionately.

Duncan stared.

Once upon a time, in the post-coital languor that had followed his and Amanda’s make-up sex after the Steven Keane affair, Amanda had tried to tell Duncan what Methos had looked like when he’d answered his door half naked. She’d been very impressed, asking whether or not Duncan had known all along that the man was so sexy. Duncan remembered dryly telling her that Methos really wasn’t his type before he kissed her, which thus began another round of sex that was much too satisfying to leave room for extraneous discussion. 

But later on Duncan had found himself strangely haunted by the question. And after a lot of reflection, he’d decided that Amanda was only partly right. Yes, Methos could indeed be very sexy. But not because of his body. No, his charms were all in his face: in the angular cheekbones that managed to seem both exotic and familiar, and in the sparkling eyes that could be wise one moment and filled with a child’s mirth the next. After a long night at Joe’s spent in surreptitious contemplation, Duncan had admitted to himself that he could imagine a woman falling in love with those eyes, but the rest was nothing special. Just an awkward collection of skinny torso and too-long limbs that could easily be overlooked...

He’d been wrong. Oh, god, he’d been so wrong.

The body now bared to Duncan’s incredulous eyes was an undeniable work of art. Strong broad shoulders. Lithe arms, the disproportionate length adding a dancer’s grace to the otherwise compact form. Slender waist tapering to a truly exquisite blue-jean covered ass. And the muscles…oh, god, the muscles. Amanda had been right to be impressed. As Joe’s hands stroked down Methos's long corded spine, lightly tracing the channels that ran like rivers between Methos’s shoulder blades, Duncan couldn’t help but stare. He wanted to touch that skin. He wanted to brush it with his lips. He wanted to trace with his tongue what Joe was feeling under his palms…

He was getting very, very turned on.

It got worse when Methos ever-so-slowly slid Joe’s shirt off his arms and dropped it to the floor, revealing a body that was even more of a shock to Duncan than Methos’s had been. Joe was, to put it mildly, built. His entire upper body curved with the muscles of a boxer or weightlifter, much bulkier than Methos’s finely honed grace, but just as powerful and strong. The mortal’s broader shoulders and weathered skin made a perfect frame for Methos’s lither, paler beauty, and when Methos slid a hand between their bodies to tease one of Joe’s nipples, they made a picture that would have aroused a eunuch. Duncan’s breathing grew faster still as he watched them kiss. He had to suppress a groan when Methos abruptly broke away and turned in Joe's embrace, pulling Joe’s arms tight around his waist as he proceeded to grind his ass against Joe’s groin. Joe smiled a smile Duncan could only call indulgent, and for a moment Duncan thought he’d never seen anything as hot as the fond, knowing look Joe wore. But that was before Joe started undoing Methos’s fly…

Duncan shook his head. No, oh no. This couldn’t be happening. He was not standing here like some adolescent peeping tom, getting unbearably hard while his two best male friends had sex. But it was spellbinding, watching Joe carefully move Methos’s jeans aside; mesmerizing, seeing Methos’s erection appear inch by tantalizing inch until Joe engulfed it in his fist, stroking gently but firmly until Methos gasped and dropped his head back onto Joe’s sheltering shoulder. Duncan took an involuntary step forward. He could see Methos’s balls beginning to lift and tighten. Surely, Methos was going to climax, and suddenly Duncan wanted to see that happen more than anything. He wanted to see the look on Methos’s face as he reached his completion. And he wanted to see the look on Joe’s as he felt the old Immortal come in his hand…

But Joe suddenly stopped. Methos groaned a protest that echoed Duncan’s feelings exactly, and Joe made soothing, shushing sounds as he lifted his hand to Methos’s mouth. “There, now. Yes, that’s it,” Joe murmured as Methos eagerly lapped his own juices from Joe’s skin, then sucked two of Joe’s fingers deep into his mouth. “Yes, just like that. Get them nice and wet,” Joe encouraged. He withdrew his fingers. Methos bent forward, bracing himself against the wall behind the bar with one hand while he shoved his jeans still further down his thighs with the other. Joe dropped his hand to Methos’s buttocks as the Immortal struggled to widen his legs, stroking in between them with his saliva-slicked hand. Then he pushed his fingers inside.

Duncan’s eyes nearly fell out of his head. He tried to keep his breathing silent, but in his ears it was just as harsh as Methos’s, who was panting raggedly behind the bar. Oh, god. If he’d thought it was hot just watching Joe stroke Methos’s cock, this was a thousand times worse. In Duncan’s mind, the sight before him and his own fantasies merged, until for a moment it felt like he was standing in Joe’s place. He was the one holding Methos’s creamy hip in one hand while he steadily penetrated him with the other, he was the one feeling the silky skin resisting his touch, he was the one feeling Methos shudder as the resistance gave way and his fingers were suddenly engulfed in heat. The fantasy seemed so real that Duncan could have sworn he felt Methos’s body hugging his fingers as he twisted them just so, sending bolts of pleasure deep inside. “Yes,” Methos groaned, and the sound was music to Duncan’s ears. “So good. God, always so good with you. Wanted this all night…don’t make me wait. Fuck me, Joe. Please…”

And at the sound of those last panted words, Joe’s name on Methos’s lips, Duncan’s fantasy came crashing down. He wasn’t a participant, here. He was a spy, an interloper, trespassing on something to which he would never belong. Cheeks now flaming a definite scarlet, Duncan started to back away. He tried not to hear Joe’s quiet: “Got lube?” or see the frantic way Methos scrabbled for a small packet inside the pocket of his fallen jean. But then Methos whispered, “Hurry. Oh, god, Joe, hurry. *Please*--” and there was so much desperation in the sound that Duncan stopped his retreat and looked back. He watched Joe tear open the packet of lubricant, hurriedly applying the contents. Then Joe backed up a few paces, bracing his lower body against the bar. “You’ll have to help,” he said. 

The Immortal nodded and moved backward. His hands closed over Joe’s, holding onto them as Joe gripped his hips, gently guiding him back. And then Methos was forcing himself onto Joe’s cock.

Duncan gaped.

It was hardly the first time he’d seen two men copulating. *That* he’d seen often enough, on battlefields, in whorehouses, in palaces and in the salons of the very rich. He’d even participated once, on a long ago night he’d buried so deeply in his heart as to almost have forgotten it had ever happened.

But Duncan would freely admit that he’d never seen anything like this. He’d never seen a man so eagerly shove himself onto another man’s cock the way Methos was currently impaling himself on Joe’s, not just offering but actively taking control of the action. He’d never seen a man’s face show quite so much joy as he did. Methos’s expression was so ecstatic that once again Duncan found himself drawn into a fantasy--only this time, he didn’t imagine himself in Joe’s role. This time, he was in Methos’s. He was the one pushing himself back into Joe’s strong body, feeling Joe’s hard cock rub against his entrance as Joe gently guided his hips; he was the one feeling the incredible fire as his body welcomed the other man, letting him slide in so hard, so deep. Joe clutched Methos even more closely as the Immortal began to move against him, not so much thrusting as grinding in hard, desperate circles. Duncan felt every single second of it, his own ass clenching in time with Methos’s movements as he imagined how it would feel. Duncan saw Methos grab for one of Joe’s hands and lift it to his chest. He heard the Immortal gasp: “Now, Joe. Come for me *now*.” And as Joe’s hands gripped Methos’s hips harder still and his groans of completion filled the air, Duncan felt that, too. He felt every single one of Joe’s last, frantic thrusts. And as the mortal reached his climax and Duncan fully imagined that, fantasized the sweet feeling of his body being flooded with heat, he finally lost control and moaned aloud. The sound echoed through the empty bar…

And suddenly, everything stopped. As if in slow motion, two startled faces swung to look Duncan’s way. Joe’s face was partially hidden in shadows, but Duncan could see Methos’s clearly…could see the shock as he saw Duncan and recognized who he was. Methos took a few stumbling, jeans-entangled steps away from Joe. He came close enough to Duncan that the mental buzzing sound that always warned Immortals of each other’s presence suddenly flared into life, further adding to Duncan’s shock and disorientation. For the second time that night, Duncan realized that Methos was wearing an expression Duncan had never seen him use: intense shame, strong and heartbreaking and terrible. He hurriedly dropped his eyes. “Oh, god,” Duncan said, unable to face the fact that he’d caused that shame, unable to make himself look and find out if Joe was showing it, too. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. Please believe me…”

He turned and fled.

***

There is no mantra one can chant, no kata one can perform, no number of miles one can run that will adequately purge the highly tantalizing memory of one’s two best friends having sex from one’s mind. Duncan knew this, because over the next few weeks he repeatedly tried all three. He also tried long bouts of pointless housecleaning, but when the barge’s floors gleamed and every last dust bunny had been evicted without any noticeable improvement to his serenity, Duncan knew he needed a more serious distraction. He sent away the contractors he’d hired and started tearing apart the barge’s plumbing on his own. Soon, the barge was cleaner, neater, and in better working order than it ever had been …but sadly, the same was not true of Duncan’s mind. Under other circumstances, he would have resorted to drink. But drinking scotch equaled memories of drinking at the bar which equaled memories of Joe and Methos which…well, which didn’t relieve the problem in the slightest. He was forced to pick up his pipe wrench again instead, and chant some more mantras as he worked.

Exactly three weeks to the day after the “event” Duncan was lying on his stomach, tinkering with some pipes that ran along the barge’s upper deck, when he felt an Immortal presence. Methos was standing on the quay...a Methos who was dressed in his best harmless Adam Pierson fashion, right down to the traditional oversized sweater and bulky hiking boots. He appeared to be wearing Adam Pierson’s mannerisms too, hands in his pockets and shoulders shrugged up shyly around his ears, a posture that shouted “I’m very young and very innocent” to all passersby. As a matter of fact, the only thing about Methos that *didn’t* shout shy innocence were his jeans, which weren’t innocent at all. They were cut tight, so tight that they showed every curve of Methos’s hips and every bulge of his…Duncan quickly looked away. Only to realize that looking away so quickly after having just blatantly eyed his friend’s package was even more embarrassing than just looking in the first place. Cursing himself, Duncan forced himself to look back, and found Methos watching him with an expression that was half exasperated and half fond. “Greetings, Highlander,” he called. “Can I come up?”

Duncan didn’t answer. Methos took his silence for assent and strode up the gangplank anyway, long legs closing the distance in a few confident strides. Duncan instantly returned to work, trying hard *not* to notice just how good those legs looked from this angle. Or just how close they came to his body when Methos stepped over his feet and lounged against the barge’s railing. “Mac,” Methos said cordially.

“Methos.”

“Long time no see.”

“I…I know.” Duncan reached for his can of WD40, carefully avoiding the other Immortal’s eyes. “I’ve been working.”

“So I see,” Methos answered. “The barge looks like it was about to sail into a showroom. I don’t think I’ve ever seen its portholes gleam quite so prettily. And I *know* I’ve never seen you polish the anchor chain before.” He paused, and Duncan could actually feel the ancient eyes traveling over his body, noting every streak of oil adorning Duncan’s shirtsleeves and every rip and tear in his well-worn jeans. “What’s gotten into you, anyway?” Methos asked. “I thought you were going to hire someone to see to the plumbing.”

“I couldn’t find anybody good enough.”

“Really? That’s very interesting,” Methos drawled. “Because *I* heard, courtesy of my Watcher contacts, that one Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod had signed a firm contract with the Broussard brothers the day after he returned to Paris. A contract he promptly breached, agreeing to pay the full fee even though they’d scarcely worked at all.” Methos cocked his head curiously to one side. “So what happened, Highlander? Were they really that incompetent? Or did you just suddenly come down with an overwhelming urge to cover your clothes with pipe gunk?”

“I just decided I wanted to do it myself, that’s all.”

“I can see that. My question is, why?”

“I enjoy working with my hands. And it keeps me busy.”

“Ah, I see. Yes, there’s always that, isn’t there.” Methos nodded sagely. “We certainly wouldn’t want you to have too much free time. Then you’d, oh, I don’t know. Maybe you’d have to go to bars and actually talk to the people who care about you, hmm?”

The accusation was plain. Duncan reluctantly put his tools aside and looked up, expecting to see a Methos whose face was hard with sarcastic taunting. But Methos actually just looked worried. And very, very sad. “It’s been several weeks now,” Methos said softly. “Joe’s been worrying about you.”

An intense feeling of guilt crept up in Duncan’s heart. He shoved it away. “Yeah, well, he doesn’t have to,” he said gruffly. “Joe knows my phone number.”

“I know. He’s used it. Several times. You’ve never picked up. You never picked up when *I* called, either.” Methos sat down on the deck, folding his legs so he could wrap his arms around his knees. “So what’s the story, Highlander? Why the disappearing act? I can’t really believe that the lure of home improvement has become so strong that you can’t be bothered to answer a ringing telephone.” He paused. “Or has Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod really become so much of a coward that he’d give up on his friends just because of one slightly awkward situation?”

Direct hit. Duncan sat up, carefully setting his tools on the deck. “It’s more than just a slightly awkward situation, Methos,” he said.

“It doesn’t have to be.”

“I think it does. Look at it from my point of view.” Duncan gestured angrily at the sky. “I’m gone for less than a year, and I come back to find the two of you…the two of you…”

“Having sex,” Methos finished. His tone implied that Duncan really should have been able to work that one out on his own.

Duncan flushed. “Yes, all right,” he said, internally cursing Methos’s self possession. “I’m gone for a few months, and I come back to find my two best friends having sex. Noisy, homosexual sex. In the middle of a bar…”

“For god’s sake, Highlander, it *was* after hours,” Methos answered, with a sarcastic roll of his eyes. “You make it sound like we were part of the Saturday night floor show.”

“That’s not the point!” Too late Duncan realized he was shouting. With a great effort, he lowered his voice. “Maybe this sort of thing is commonplace for you, Methos. But it’s not for me, and I doubt it ever will be. How did you expect me to react, anyway?”

“Honestly?” Methos looked thoughtful. “Not like this.”

“Then how?”

“I figured one of two things would happen,” Methos answered. “If I’d had to place a bet, I would have put money on you showing up at the bar the next evening, making Joe and me blush with one or two very bad jokes about our technique and taste in partners, and then buying us both a drink before life went on as normal. Either that, or you’d come to the bar, refuse to meet our eyes until Joe or I made *you* blush with one or two bad jokes about your poor sense of timing, and then *we’d* buy you a drink and life would go on as normal. Both scenarios involved you *showing up*, Highlander. I never expected that you’d avoid us for this long. Or that you’d turn yourself into a later day Bob Villa just to give yourself an excuse to do it.” Methos shrugged. “After all, this can hardly be the first time you accidentally walked in on one of your friends in a compromising position. You hung out with Hugh Fitzcairn for nearly a century, didn't you? It must have been practically a daily occurrence with him.”

Duncan’s color deepened. In his mind’s eye, he suddenly saw the scene again: the shadowy bar, the gleaming skin, the two bodies moving together in forceful rhythm. “That was different.”

“How?”

Two faces united in expressions of sensual ecstasy, heartfelt groans of satisfaction ringing in the air… “It just was.” Methos frowned and crossed his arms over his chest. His body language clearly stated that he wasn’t going anywhere until Duncan gave a better answer than that. Desperately, Duncan decided that since he didn’t have one, he’d better start asking the questions, instead. “How long has this been going on, anyway?” he demanded.

“Ah.” For the first time, Methos looked uncomfortable. “Not all that long, really.”

“A couple of weeks? A couple of months?”

“A couple of years.” Methos’s look of discomfort increased. “About four of them altogether, I think.”

“Four *years*?”

Duncan repeated the words shrilly. Methos nodded, subdued. “Since that horrible week when Kalas found me. When you discovered who I was and told Joe my real name,” he said. “I went to see Joe in Seacouver after I closed up my flat here, and we…well, there’d always been some chemistry between us. I’d just never been able to figure out how to keep my secret while dating a Watcher. And of course Joe always thought sleeping with a kid like Adam Pierson was tantamount to robbing the cradle. But once he knew the truth and I knew he wasn’t going to turn me in, there wasn’t any reason…” Methos trailed off, registering the shock on Duncan’s face. He misinterpreted it entirely. “Look, Duncan,” he said uneasily. “It’s not…it’s not anything serious.”

*Four years,* Duncan thought blankly. *Four years, they’ve been together. Four years, they’ve had each other…and I’ve been an outsider. I never even guessed…* “Not serious?” he said incredulously. “What I saw looked pretty damned serious to me, Methos.”

“Yes, well.” Methos looked more uncomfortable still. “Obviously we’ve come to know each other very well, and we trust each other a lot. But that’s really all there is to it. When Joe needs me, I’m there for him, and vice versa. But the rest of the time it’s just a thing, no strings attached. Joe didn’t have a problem with me falling for Alexa, and if Betsy hadn’t been married already I probably would have thrown Joe’s bachelor party. A ‘friendship with benefits’, I think the youngsters call it…”

“And you think that makes it better?” Duncan said, aghast. “Joe’s *mortal*, Methos!”

“Yes? Of course he is. What’s that got to do with anything?”

“It’s not right. You’re taking advantage of him.”

“I…I’m what?” The old Immortal looked shocked. His mouth actually dropped open as he regarded Duncan, hurt evident in the hazel eyes. “Would you repeat that, please?”

Duncan saw the hurt, and a part of him instantly regretted what he’d said. But that part was small compared to the rest of him. And it was *definitely* no longer in control. A deep, ugly feeling was rapidly filling his chest, caused by the pain of knowing that Joe and Methos had kept this from him for so long. It didn’t matter that he knew they’d had every right to. He felt betrayed all the same. And decided to strike out in the only way he could. “You heard me the first time.”

“Yes. Yes, I did. I just wasn’t sure my ears were screwed on right,” Methos said dazedly. “Tell me, Duncan, just what exactly did you see that night…or, for that matter, at any other time that Joe and I have ever been together in your presence…that made you think Joe was being taken advantage of?”

Duncan narrowed his eyes. “I know what I saw, Methos. It doesn’t matter who was doing what to whom. You’re a lot older than he is, and allegedly wiser. You’re certainly more manipulative. You shouldn’t be…” *taking for granted something most of us would kill to have.* “Using him like that.”

“I see,” Methos answered, and Duncan could see his hurt slowly transforming into fury. “So I’m no better than a pedophile, am I? Robbing my mortal friends of their innocence? Seducing Joe into following my wicked homosexual ways?” Duncan didn’t answer, but his silence was answer enough. Methos’s eyes flashed dangerously as he got to his feet. “You know,” he said, straightening his sweatshirt with a vicious tug, “if it had been up to me, *I* would have told you about me and Joe years ago. *Joe* was the one who didn’t want you to know. He had this ridiculous, or so I thought, idea that you’d take it badly. I kept arguing with him…kept telling him that after four centuries, you must have seen enough of the world not to feel threatened by people who did things differently than they did in Glen Finnan. I see now that I was wrong.”

“Methos…”

“Not another word, Highlander. You’ve already said quite enough.” Methos strode angrily across the deck, and Duncan was sure the conversation was over. But at the railing, Methos turned back. “And I should probably save my breath, but I’ll just add one more thing,” he said. “If you *must* act like a prejudiced barbarian about this, don’t do it front of Joe. His life is quite hard enough as it is without being forced to cope with bigotry from his so-called friends. And, as you say, he’s mortal. Most likely, he only has two or three good decades left. He shouldn’t have to spend one precious second of them waiting for you to grow up. If you insist on behaving like a child, the best thing you can do is to cut all ties now. Remove yourself from Paris altogether. Before he wastes another minute worrying about someone who doesn’t deserve the effort.”

Methos gave Duncan a curt nod and made his way down the gangplank.

***

Duncan’s dreams that night were vivid and extremely troubling. Not that they started out the way. At first, he was lying on his side in a warm, safe place, completely comfortable and absolutely at ease. Cushiony softness pillowed his limbs. Gentle floral fragrances teased his nose. And a long, warm body was spooned up against his back, pressing gentle kisses into his shoulder. All was peace, all was calm, and a knowing hand was just beginning to slide along his side, stirring his body into sensual wakefulness.

All in all, it was one of the best dreams Duncan could remember having in quite a while.

The exploring hand grew bolder. When it slid up his thigh to cup his testicles, Duncan rolled onto his back and found his mouth captured in a loving kiss. Soft lips and a very pliant tongue began to pleasure his mouth with the same gentle thoroughness with which the hand rolled and teased his sac. Duncan moaned softly into that mouth, feeling loved, feeling valued, feeling safe. And that, of course, was when it all started to go wrong. 

A second pair of hands joined the first, sensually stroking his feet and calves. Duncan might have ignored that. It could have been easy to believe that his subconscious had conjured up a fantasy lover with four hands, right along with the rest of this beautiful, magical place. But he couldn’t ignore the presence of a second *mouth*. Especially not one that kissed up his leg from the inside of his knee to his upper thigh, then rubbed over the same skin with a bristly, bearded cheek. Bearded. That meant…male. That meant…

Duncan opened his dream-eyes and looked down at Joe.

And not just any Joe. A shirtless, mussed-hair, very sexy looking Joe, sprawled between Duncan’s legs and seeming very pleased with himself. Duncan whipped his head around and saw, as he suspected, that the other hand fondling him belonged to Methos. For a second, the sight of his sac being teased by those long, expert fingers made Duncan breathtakingly hard. And then he started up in panic. “No,” he said, horrified. “Oh, no. I didn’t mean...I never wanted…”

The earth shook. Duncan stumbled to his feet, realizing that the soft, yielding ground they’d been lying on was actually a small island. An island that was rapidly splitting into two pieces, leaving Duncan on one side and Methos and Joe on the other. Duncan saw Joe’s sadness and Methos’s disappointment as they began to drift away, and Duncan’s part of the island began to sink. The last thing Duncan heard as freezing water engulfed his mouth and nose was Methos’s disdainful voice. “Grow *up*, MacLeod...”

Duncan woke up gasping with his face smothered in a pillow, so tangled up in blankets that it was almost impossible to move. By the time he'd freed himself and was sitting wearily upon his living room couch with a glass of wine in his hand, he was thoroughly disgusted with his own subconscious mind. So much for subtlety. It didn’t exactly take a Sean Burns to interpret this particular dream, now did it? It was all there…his inappropriate desires for his two friends, desires which were much stronger than he’d let himself admit. And the way he’d let his fear of those desires split them apart.

Just like he had with Darius.

Duncan swirled the wine around moodily in his glass. He hadn’t let himself think about it for years, but seeing Methos and Joe together brought it all back. Darius hadn’t seemed at all surprised when Duncan had shown up in front of his church that rainy day in 1845, soaked to the bone and heartbroken over the loss of his latest mortal love, the beautiful gypsy maid Zarah. After thirty years of friendship, during which Duncan had often come to him in similar moments of confusion and loss, Duncan supposed Darius had gotten used to it. The priest had just ordered one of the younger monks to tend to Duncan’s horse before he’d taken Duncan back to his cell. Then he’d proceeded to warm him with heated blankets and a hefty dose of honey mead. 

Duncan had known all along that with the mead would come conversation, gentle and caring and wise, so wise that at the end of a few short hours the world would once again make sense. And he was not disappointed. But this time, along with the wisdom, there was something else—a heat in the old priest’s eyes whenever he looked Duncan’s way that Duncan was astonished to find answered in his own body and heart. They kept finding excuses to touch each other, Duncan’s leg brushing Darius’s knee whenever he got up to tend Darius’s small bedroom fire, Darius’s fingers lingering on Duncan’s shoulder whenever he poured Duncan more mead. At one point Darius reached over to wrap Duncan’s blanket more firmly around Duncan’s shoulders, and his hand slipped under the fabric…touching the warm skin Duncan’s loose Romany shirt left bare. He’d placed the flat of his hand right over Duncan’s heart. Duncan had shuddered, feeling the touch as he’d felt no other touch since. He’d let the blanket fall. And then, abruptly, they were making love.

Duncan could still remember every moment. Everything had happened so easily between them. There had been no awkwardness, or shame. It had seemed the most natural thing in the world to go from kissing Darius’s mouth to stroking his cock, making the priest cry out, making wetness spurt over both their bodies. And after that, it had seemed just as natural for Darius to roll onto his stomach and teach Duncan how to pleasure him from the inside as well, first with goose-fat-slicked fingers, than with Duncan’s own aching erection. Duncan had learned a lot that night. He’d learned how to penetrate a man, how to prepare his body for coupling so that there was bliss instead of pain. He’d learned that there didn’t have to be a give and take in sex—there could, instead, just be giving, both partners offering all they could. And as he sank into Darius’s hot, welcoming channel and moved inside him, the entire length of his body rubbing against the priest’s in wave after wave of glorious pleasure, Duncan had learned that this act could be a kind of homecoming. A return to a place Duncan had always yearned for, but had never thought he’d find…

But in the morning, everything had been different. The glow of homecoming had faded along with the honey mead. What had seemed sacred and holy in last night’s firelight had become seedy and sick in the cold light of day. The goose fat smearing Duncan’s skin had spoiled, giving off a sickening stench, and when Darius had stirred in the rumpled blankets and he'd seen his own dried semen flaking off Darius’s thighs, Duncan had turned almost purple with shame. 

Darius had seen it. He’d reached out to him. When Duncan flinched away, he’d dropped his hand with a sigh. “It’s all right, Duncan,” he’d said gently. “You are no less than you were yesterday just because of this.”

“’Twas a sin,” Duncan had answered hollowly. “I am a warrior, not a…not a…”

He remembered now that he hadn’t been able to come up with a word. Every single phrase he’d known to describe a man who lay with other men was also an insult of the very worst kind. They were words solely intended to provoke revulsion and disgust if whispered behind a man’s back, or else a killing rage if spoken to his face. And Duncan could not bring himself to say such things to *Darius*. Not even if his own heart had shriveled as small as a walnut with shame. 

Darius had looked pensive, eyes lingering on the large crucifix hanging on his cell wall. “And I am a consecrated priest,” he’d murmured. “One who has sworn a holy vow to God to remain chaste. You, at least, have no such oath-breaking on your conscience.” More ashamed than ever, Duncan had looked away. “It’s all right, Duncan,” Darius had said kindly. “God created us to be human, to have human frailties, to commit human sins. His forgiveness is as infinite as His love. There will be no punishment.” Darius had looked sad. “Except that which, in our own short-sightedness, we choose to inflict upon ourselves.”

“It canna happen again,” Duncan had said, and Darius had nodded, looking sadder still. The two of them had cleaned up, first the room, and then themselves…and then Duncan had retrieved his horse from the church stables and ridden far, far away. It would be more than a hundred and forty years before Grayson’s presence drove Darius to ask Duncan for help, and their comradeship was resumed—tentatively at first, then quickly flowering into a friendship so deep Duncan was forced to realize just what his youthful stupidity had cost. He’d wanted badly to apologize to the priest. Wanted to come to terms with what had happened, maybe even admit that he very much wanted it to happen again. But first there had been Tessa to consider…and then Darius had died. Killed by mortals within his very own church, beheaded on Holy Ground…

And the search for his murderers had led Duncan first to Joe, and then to Methos…and now to this. Seeing Joe and Methos together had brought back the whole stupid story, all Duncan’s sorrow, all his regret. Worse, it had made it painfully clear just how lonely his life had become, how desperately he wanted what Methos and Joe had found together. He wanted the trust, wanted the strength. Wanted the freedom of being exactly who he was with a lover, with no need to lie about either his Immortality or his desires. Or…

The memory of his dream suddenly rose up in Duncan’s mind, and his hand tightened on his glass. No, as long as he was being honest, he might as well *really* be honest. He didn’t just want what Joe and Methos had found. He wanted Joe and Methos. *Their* strength, *their* trust, their beautiful, sexy male bodies. He wanted it so badly he could taste it…and he knew, just as strongly, that he could never have it. Despite Methos’s ramblings about “friendships with benefits”, he and Joe clearly cared for each other deeply. Duncan knew he would never forgive himself if he interfered. No. He was doomed to remain on the outside.

And that meant that the very best thing he could do was to follow Methos’s caustic advice. He had to get out of Paris. Before he ended up making the situation even worse than he already had.

But that didn’t mean that he could just run away like a coward. Methos, perhaps, would have been happy to see him go without a word, but Duncan couldn’t do that to Joe. So he waited for a Tuesday evening, when, if memory served correctly, Joe always kept the bar closed in order to catch up on his Watcher paperwork. 

Memory did serve. Joe was in Le Blues sitting at a table covered with reports and forms when Duncan rapped on the window. The mortal looked both startled and embarrassed, and Duncan heartily sympathized. He *really* didn’t want to be there, didn’t want to say the things he knew he had to say. But Joe had already put down his pencil and was hurrying to unlock the door, and Duncan knew he had indulged in cowardice long enough. “Mac,” Joe said, and Duncan could hear both nervousness and relief. “Come in, old friend. Come in.”

Uneasily, adopting Methos’s habit of shoving his hands deeply into his pockets so he wouldn’t have to figure out what to with them, Duncan followed Joe to a paperwork-free table and sat down. Once there, he found himself at a complete loss. Joe seemed to have the same problem. He, too, was silent for an uncomfortably long time, fidgeting in his chair. Then he leaned across the table. “Mac, you want to get drunk?” he asked earnestly. “I’ve been saving a bottle of some really cheap American whiskey for a special occasion. You know, the kind of occasion where you don’t want to remember anything that happened the next day. Sound good to you?”

The humor worked. Duncan chuckled, and some of the tension between them went away. “Yeah, that sounds great. Thanks.” Joe nodded and limped off to find the bottle. Duncan followed. “So much for the drink,” he said thoughtfully, sitting down on a bar stool. “I suppose it’s time for the bad jokes, now.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Never mind. It was just something Methos said when he came to see me,” Duncan answered. “He seemed to think that all it would take for things to get back to normal between us was a drink and a few bad jokes.”

Joe’s head resurfaced, looking startled. “You talked to Methos? When?”

“Three or four days ago. He came to the barge. Didn’t he tell you?” Joe slowly shook his head. “Well,” Duncan said reflectively, “I guess I should be relieved he didn’t. It wasn’t one of my prouder moments, Joe.”

Joe straightened up, holding a bottle of what was, indeed, appallingly cheap whiskey in his hands. He placed it on the bar with a pair of shot glasses, a sympathetic look on his face. “Said some things you regretted, did you, Highlander?”

“I acted like a complete fool,” Duncan said bluntly. “Which I guess really shouldn’t come as a surprise. I’ve been acting that way ever since…well. You know what since.” Joe’s cheeks colored slightly. Duncan looked at him seriously. “I’m sorry, Joe. I shouldn’t have avoided you the way I've been doing. I just…”

“It’s okay,” Joe interrupted. “I understand.”

“You do?”

“Yeah. I do.” Joe nodded. “You’re a man of high moral standards, Mac. You expect everyone around you to be the same way. I always knew that if you ever found out what Methos and I really did together, you’d be…well, shocked. Disgusted.” Joe filled the glasses and knocked his drink back all in one gulp, making a sour face at the bitter burn. “Frankly, you’re taking it much better than I expected. I figured you’d be halfway to some Nepali monastery by now. You know. Purging yourself of unholy influences…”

Duncan choked on his own whiskey, horrified. “Is that really what you think of me?” he asked, appalled. “That I’d be so disgusted I’d run away?”

“Well, didn’t you?” Joe answered, and Duncan groaned aloud, realizing for the first time what the last three weeks of silence must have looked like to Joe. “It's okay, Mac,” the Watcher repeated earnestly. “The first thing a man learns when he decides to…uh, engage in this sort of relationship…is that not everyone in his life is going to understand. I always knew you’d be one of those people, if the day ever came when you found out. I mean, how could it be otherwise? You’ve always been straight. You don’t have any idea what it’s like to want…well. You don’t know what it’s like, that’s all. And let’s face it.” Joe looked down at his shot glass. “Even if you did get the whole gay thing, the idea of Methos and I being together is pretty damn weird. We’re hardly the typical couple, after all. Hell. There are days when even I don’t believe…” He trailed off.

“Don’t believe what?” Duncan asked.

Joe sighed. “How lucky I am,” he said honestly, and spread his hands over the table. “Listen to me, Mac. For the first couple of days after you walked in on us, I kept hoping that things would get back to normal. I thought that maybe you could just push what you saw to the back of your head, forget it ever happened. But I realize now that can never be. And that’s okay. Maybe it’s even for the best.” Joe straightened his shoulders determinedly. “I’ve already talked to my supervisor. The Watchers have wanted me to retire from field work for a while now, concentrate on administration, maybe teach a few classes at the Academy. Your new Watcher should be here next week. You’ll like her…it’s Barbara Waverly, remember? She was married to that guy who tried to blackmail you in Seacouver. We recruited her after Lymon Kurlow killed her husband…”

“Oh, Joe.” Duncan shook his head helplessly. “I don’t want a new Watcher, Joe. Believe me. That’s the last thing on earth I want to happen.”

Joe’s forehead furrowed. “Then what do you want?”

Duncan smiled sadly. “The impossible.” 

Joe continued to look puzzled. Duncan sighed. “Listen, Joe. I haven’t been avoiding you all these weeks because I was disgusted…unless you count being disgusted with myself. And I haven’t been avoiding you because I didn’t understand why you and Methos would be attracted to each other, either.” He took a deep breath, then knocked back the last of his whiskey with the aura of a man taking his last drink before his execution. “Believe me. On that score, I understand all too well.”

For a second, Joe looked completely baffled. Then, suddenly, he looked thunderstruck. “*Oh*,” he said. “You mean…you???”

“Yeah,” Duncan agreed. “That’s exactly what I mean.”

He placed his empty glass back on the bar. Joe still looked dazed, but a bartender’s muscles tend to work on instinct if he’s going to be at all successful at his job. He poured more whiskey into Duncan’s glass automatically, looking like he had a million questions he wanted to ask. Duncan braced himself for the hard work of finding honest answers.

But just as Joe opened his mouth, Duncan felt it—the strong buzz of another Immortal presence. And then Methos appeared, clearly having let himself in the back way. He was carrying his sword in his hand. “Well, well,” Methos said coldly. “Look what we have here.”

All it took was one look at the old Immortal for Duncan to know that he was in serious trouble. Methos’s features were frozen into a mask of cold disdain that told Duncan he was on the very edge of a killing rage, the kind that usually resulted in somebody losing his head. Duncan raised his hands, instinctively trying to signal that he was no threat. 

Joe apparently had the same instinct. He let go of the bottle and raised his hands as well. “Uh, hi there, Methos,” Joe said carefully. “Um…what’s with the sword?”

“Oh, it started out as strictly a precautionary measure,” Methos answered. “I let myself in, felt the Presence, and knew another Immortal was here. I thought Joe might need my assistance.”

“You didn’t know it was me?” Duncan asked.

"Exactly how was I supposed to know that, MacLeod? You haven’t been a regular here for quite some time,” Methos said witheringly. “And since Joe has occasionally run afoul of Immortals from my past before…”

Duncan frowned. “He has?”

Methos ignored him. “…I thought it better to be safe then sorry,” he finished. “Now, though, that I know for sure who you are…” Methos smiled. It was the terrible, threatening smile of predator that’s just spotted its lunch. “Well. Let’s word it this way. I don’t think I’m going to be sorry at all.” He took a few steps forward.

“Methos!” Joe exclaimed. 

Duncan scrambled backwards, knocking over a few bar stools as he did. “You’re *Challenging* me?” 

“Not Challenging, no,” Methos answered. “Merely establishing territory.” His eyes glittered. “This bar is *our* refuge, MacLeod, mine and Joe’s. If you think you can just come here and harass him behind my back…”

“We were just talking, Methos!” Joe protested.

“Right. Just talking,” Methos nodded. “Which would perfectly explain why you were the color of a sheet when I walked in. Sorry, Joe. I’m not buying it. And I’m not standing for it, either.” He turned back to Duncan. “Your frozen 16th century attitudes aren’t welcome here, MacLeod. I suggest you take them someplace else.” The terrifying smile returned. “Before we have cause to see just how much ‘act of god’ lightning damage Joe’s insurance company will cover.”

“Methos!” Joe groaned. He covered his face with his hands for a moment, then lowered them again, facing his enraged lover across the bar. “Put down the damn sword, old man. You’ve got it all wrong.”

“Do I?” 

“Yeah, you do. Mac *wasn’t* harassing me, Methos. He was just explaining, that’s all.”

“Oh yes?” The tip of the sword wavered slightly, but Methos’s cold gaze never did. “And just what was he explaining, Joe? Exactly how he became the sort of bigoted asshole who’d abandon his friends for no good reason? What happened? Did his sainted mother drop him on his head as an infant, or something?”

“Oh, for god’s sake.” Joe rolled his eyes. “No, you ancient idiot. He was just explaining that the reason he’s been acting like a fool for the last few weeks was because he’s in love with YOU.”

There was a long pause. 

Duncan felt his cheeks turn a brilliant, flaming scarlet. But Joe’s statement seemed to have exactly the opposite effect on Methos. The old Immortal’s face lost what little color it had, becoming as pale as alabaster. The tip of the sword hit the bar’s floor with a thump. “Excuse me?” Methos said politely. “Would you mind repeating that, please?”

“Now who looks like a sheet,” Joe said wryly. “I think you heard me perfectly the first time, Methos. Mac’s in love with you.”

“Um. Actually, that’s not what I…” Duncan started to say.

But neither Methos nor Joe were listening. “Don’t be stupid,” Methos told Joe, and it was as if Duncan had ceased to exist in the room at all. “He’s not even gay.”

“Yeah, well, those things have a way of not being as set in stone as people like to believe,” Joe answered with a tiny smile. “Especially not around you, my friend. After all, I was still under the impression that *I* was straight when I discovered that I really liked the way a certain young researcher looked in a tight pair of jeans.” 

“That’s different!”

“How?”

“Excuse me,” Duncan tried again. “If I could just interrupt…”

“It just is,” Methos answered heatedly, as if Duncan hadn’t spoken at all. “You were still a kid, and…”

“Thirty-five is a kid?”

“From my point of view, yes, yes, it is! It takes time to shuck off one’s childhood conditioning, Joe, but a person manages if the inclination is there. You did it in thirty-five years. Mac’s had four hundred. If he wasn’t one of nature’s exclusive heterosexuals, there would have been some indication before now. Some hint in the Chronicles…”

“Ahem.”

“You’re blind, Methos,” Joe answered. “And Chronicles can be wrong.”

“So can Watchers! You must have heard wrong, Joe.”

“Erm…”

“No.” Joe shook his head determinedly. “It’s *okay*, Methos. You don’t have to go the denial route just to save my feelings. I know how you feel about him, and I won’t stand in your way. I didn’t when you fell in love with Alexa, and I won’t do it now.” Joe gave Methos a tiny, tender smile. “I just want you to be happy, that’s all.”

“Joe…” 

Methos groaned the name, great anguish echoing in every tone. He flung himself down into one of the bar’s chairs, head slumped over the table in defeat. 

Duncan decided it was time to step in. “Excuse me,” he said. “If you two are finally done talking about me as if I’m not in the room, perhaps I could explain what I *really* said.” Two pairs of startled eyes swung to regard him. Duncan cleared his throat awkwardly, wishing he was anywhere but there. “All right. For the record, I am *not* one of nature’s exclusive heterosexuals, as Methos put it. I may, um, have only ever acted on an attraction to a man once before in my life, but that doesn’t mean that I haven’t *been* attracted. Repeatedly.” He swallowed. “And I am attracted now. I have been for a very long time now, I think. I was just too scared to admit it.”

Methos shook his head. There was a look of intense pain in the hazel eyes. “Duncan, I…”

Duncan held up his hand. “No. Don’t say anything, yet,” he said. “This is hard enough already without either of you jumping to conclusions. Methos, Joe was half right. I do…I mean, you are…oh, damn.” There he went, babbling like a teenager. Methos had been right. He really did need to grow up. “I do want you, Methos,” he finished quietly. “But not *just* you.”

There was a long tense moment during which Methos just stared at him blankly, utterly confused. Then, in quick succession, he looked startled, then understanding, and then happy, his lips curving into the same joyful smile Duncan had seen him wear That Night. It lasted for all of three seconds, during which Duncan was once again completely dazzled by the older Immortal’s beauty. Then Methos started to laugh…hilariously, uproariously, so overcome with mirth that he actually had to hold onto the table for support. 

Wondering if Methos had somehow managed to completely lose his marbles, Duncan stared. So did Joe. “I don’t get it,” Joe said, clearly baffled. “Who else does Duncan want? And why is it so funny?”

“And he accused *me* of being blind,” Methos said to Duncan, wiping his eyes before he turned to the bar. “Joe, my young mortal friend, it’s you. Duncan wants both of us.”

It was Joe’s turn to look stunned. “But that’s impossible.”

“No, Joe. It really, really isn’t,” Methos answered. 

Standing off to the side as he was, Duncan only caught about a tenth of the look Methos gave Joe then. But what he did see was enough to send a shiver down his spine, it was so intense with passion and unspoken love. “I—this—well,” Joe said helplessly, completely flustered. He lifted his eyes to Duncan. “Mac?”

Duncan nodded slowly. “It’s not impossible at all, Joe. It’s a fact.” 

Joe assumed an extremely startled expression, clearly unable to process this information. Duncan looked uncomfortably down at his feet. “Look, I’m not expecting anything,” he said. “The last thing I want to do is mess things up between you. I just couldn’t leave Paris with both of you thinking I was disgusted by you when I was really just jealous instead. But that's all there is to it. I just wanted you to know, that’s all." Eyes still on the floor, Duncan started to gather up his coat.

There was a second of shocked silence—and then Duncan heard Methos sliding back his chair. Booted feet crossed the floor, coming to stand at Duncan’s left side. At the same time, the sounds of limping footsteps and a cane came out from behind the bar, and Joe approached his other side. “Don’t be an ass, Mac,” Methos said softly. “If you think Joe and I are going to let you leave Paris after a declaration like that…”

“You’d better think again,” Joe agreed. “Actually, I don’t think we can let you go anywhere at all.” 

There was an undercurrent in Joe’s voice that Duncan had never heard in Joe’s voice before. Startled, he turned his head to look down at him, to find that Joe was looking at him with desire and a great deal of hope. “Unless it’s to go someplace more comfortable,” Joe finished softly. “You know. To talk things over.”

Duncan inhaled shakily. “Just talking, huh,” he said. “Joe, I don’t think talking is really what I wanted to do tonight…”

Both men sucked in their breaths. “My flat is less than fifteen minutes away,” Methos said in a low voice.

“Yeah, but only if we drive,” Joe replied. “My house is less than ten minutes by foot. Eight, if we leave by the back door and cut through the alley.” Methos nodded. Joe touched Duncan’s shoulder. “Mac. Is this really what you want?”

“Yeah.” Funny, how easy it was to say. “It really is.”

For a moment, Joe still looked disbelieving. But then he smiled, and it was like dawn was breaking over the mortal’s face. “Let’s go, then. Methos?”

“I’ll help you close down.”

They quickly locked up the bar, and then Methos was leading them out the back door, through the winding streets and alleys to Joe’s home. 

Duncan was ashamed to realize that he’d never have found it on his own. Somehow, he’d never made the time to visit Joe’s Parisian home before. But Methos clearly didn’t have this problem. He threaded his way through the narrow streets with an assurance that told Duncan he’d often walked this way before, and when they reached the house he entered it confidently, turning on the lights and even adjusting the thermostat as if he was the one who owned the place, not Joe. Faced with this new evidence of just how close Joe and Methos really were, Duncan hung back. He started to wonder if this whole thing had been a huge mistake—a feeling that just increased when Joe and Methos met in the corner and started to speak in low whispers. After several seconds of this, Joe flashed Duncan a brilliant smile and limped off down a hallway, leaving Duncan and Methos alone. “What was that all about?” Duncan asked uneasily.

“Just a small research assignment,” Methos answered lightly. “Joe wanted me to find out what you had in mind for the night.”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, I think you know what I mean, Highlander. You must have had *some* idea of what you wanted when you came to the bar tonight, some fantasy about the way you wanted this evening to go. Joe wanted me to find out what that fantasy was.” Methos crossed the room and stood in front of Duncan, close enough to be within touching distance. “So we could make it come true.” 

The nearness of Methos’s body, coupled with the undeniable heat in Methos’s eyes, made Duncan’s entire body suddenly come to dazzling, needy life. He bit down on his lip. “Just that easy, huh?” he said unsteadily. “I ask for what I want, and the two of you provide?”

“Pretty much,” Methos said calmly. “There are some limits, of course."

"Limits?"

"Mostly physical ones," Methos answered. "Joe can’t kneel, and if you want him to do anything particularly athletic standing up, you’d better give him something to hold onto first. But apart from that, we're both pretty much ready for anything.” Methos stepped closer still and bent his head, resting his forehead against Duncan’s. “So what will it be, Highlander? Whatever desires you have, I’m fairly certain that both Joe and I would be happy to satisfy them.”

There was no question that he meant it. The unparalleled generosity of the offer made Duncan’s head swim. He glanced awkwardly around the room, at the vintage blues posters hanging on the wall that seemed to thrum with Joe-ness, at the couch with Methos’s coat so casually tossed over it. “I really just want to belong here,” he admitted.

Something deep and inexpressibly tender flicker in the old, old eyes. “Ah, Highlander,” Methos said. “You do. If you don’t know that by now…” He shook his head and leaned in closer, lightly brushing his lips over Duncan’s own. 

The gesture had a solemn, ceremonial feel. It felt like a welcome, the same kind of homecoming he’d felt with Darius. Duncan was startled to feel a suspicious prickle of tears welling in his eyes.

Methos noticed. “All right,” he said, taking a small step back. “Who was he, Mac?”

“Who was who?”

“Don't give me that--you know very well who I mean. Your one and only male lover. He who was the only man in four hundred years to have tempted you from attraction into action before. The one who...” Methos’s voice softened. “The one who hurt you badly enough to make you believe you’d never be welcome here.”

“I—” 

Unbidden, an image of Darius flashed in Duncan’s mind. He shook his head to banish it. “I don’t see how that matters,” he said. “And he didn’t hurt me, Methos.”

“No?” Methos’s eyebrow arched eloquently. “I must beg to differ, Highlander. Whoever he was, he obviously did *something* to make you decide that you didn’t want to be with a man again. I’d like to know who he was. So I know what kind of mishandling Joe and I have to correct.” He cocked his head sideways, looking at Duncan thoughtfully. “It must have been someone you trusted a lot, yes? Someone you still feel a lot of loyalty for, or you wouldn’t still be trying to protect him now. One of your teachers, perhaps? Connor? Graham Ashe? Or…” Methos frowned. “Or was it Darius?”

Duncan pulled back, startled. “How did you…” Methos’s eyes widened. Duncan flushed, realizing that the old Immortal had just been guessing, and he was the one who’d just given the game away. “Fine. It was Darius, if you must know,” he said brusquely. “But he *didn’t* hurt me, Methos. If anything, it was the other way around.” 

“What happened?”

“Nothing. Unless you count my acting like a total fool.” Duncan turned away, shoulders hunching as he stared at the wall. “I was kid, still filled with those 16th century ideas of right and wrong you love to make fun of. I couldn’t handle discovering that I wanted a man that way. And he was a priest, which just made everything worse. It only happened once, and then I took off, avoided him like the plague for the next century and a half. It took a crisis like Grayson going after Victor Paulus for us to even start talking again. And then…” Duncan’s hands closed into helpless fists. “And then…”

“And then Horton killed him,” Methos finished for him. “Thereby robbing you of any chance to resolve the situation one way or the other. Oh, Highlander.” Duncan said nothing. Methos laid a gentle hand onto his shoulder. “You do know,” he said softly, “that neither Joe nor I are planning on dying anytime soon. We’re not going to abandon you the same way.”

Duncan’s fists clenched even more tightly. “Yeah, well, I don’t think Darius exactly planned on it, either,” he said gruffly. “Neither did Graham…and god only knows where Connor has disappeared to. Not to mention that the last time I was in town, Joe was almost killed by Liam O’Rourke.” Duncan lifted his eyes. “Every man I’ve ever cared for has ended up dying, Methos. You can’t blame me for being...hesitant.”

“That’s because every *man* ends up dying, Duncan,” Methos answered soberly. “Mortal and Immortal alike. Whether you love them or not really has very little to do with it.” Duncan nodded heavily, accepting the truth of this. “All I can tell you,” Methos continued, “is that both Joe and I have quite a bit of experience at staying alive—nobody’s been able to take us out yet, the persistent Mr. O’Rourke included. And unlike Darius, neither of us expects Holy Ground to protect us from every danger. We’re both pretty clear sighted, Duncan. Neither of us is going anywhere soon.” He stepped in closer. “And there are other differences, too.”

“Like what?”

“Well, for starters, neither Joe nor I is a priest,” Methos answered. “Which means there are no sacred vows to be broken, no guilty consciences to be had. All three of us are free to enjoy ourselves exactly as we wish. Which is fortunate.” He smiled. “Because neither of us quite has Darius’s self-sacrificing nature, either.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning that we’re both too selfish to let a good thing go when we see it.” Methos lightly brushed Duncan’s palm with his hand, calloused fingertips lingering on the inside of Duncan's wrist. “We’re not going to let you spend a hundred and fifty years running from what you want, Highlander. Not now that we know that you do.” 

It was shocking, just how strongly Duncan’s body responded to this. How quickly the heat sparked in his groin. “And what if I don’t know what I want?” he said unsteadily, remembering where this conversation had started. “What if I’m too confused to even know where to begin?” 

“Then we’ll figure it out together.” And before Duncan could either protest or agree, Methos leaned forward and kissed Duncan’s mouth.

It was quite a kiss. Methos’s lips were as sweet as honey, as hot as a licking candle flame, and as sinful as a set of black satin sheets. Skillful, knowing, not in the least bit shy, they brushed Duncan’s mouth over and over again with tantalizing slowness, testing Duncan’s softness, learning his shape. Then the lush mouth opened, and Duncan found his lips being parted by a hot, probing tongue—a tongue so slick and wet that Duncan was instantly wracked with strange shivers, every sense he had focused on the intruder in his mouth and the hot, lean body of the man who had put it there. It wasn’t at all like kissing Darius had been. Nor was it like kissing any of the many women he’d known, who’d either returned his attentions with maidenly decorum or else sucked in his tongue with transparent feminine greed. Oh, the greed was there, but it was just one note in the symphony. There was also a focus, a dominance, which Duncan had never felt in his life. As if Methos knew exactly what he was doing when he penetrated Duncan’s body with his tongue, and every thrill of movement afterward was a promise of still more intimate pleasures later on. A deep shudder ran through Duncan’s body, and he surrendered to that promise, letting his muscles soften as he relaxed. 

The sound of limping feet entered the room, followed by a soft chuckle. “Well, that answers that question,” Joe said, sounding amused. “And there was me thinking that it was going to be *awkward*, figuring out how to get the ball rolling. I should have known the two of you couldn’t wait to get started.” 

Instantly ashamed of himself, Duncan pulled away. He had no idea what the protocol for all-male threesomes usually included, but he was fairly sure it was always bad manners to ignore your host. “Joe, I’m sorry…”

“Don’t be,” Joe answered. “In case Methos hasn’t already made it clear, this night is for you.” He stepped in behind Duncan’s back and touched his upper arms, rubbing them up and down in a slow, sexy pattern. “Well, what are you waiting for? Don’t stop on *my* account,” Joe said throatily, and Duncan knew it was okay to continue. He stepped back into Methos’s arms and relaxed into the kiss. 

He had no idea how long the three of them stayed like that, Methos kissing him, Joe’s hands wandering over his arms and shoulders. Eventually, though, the musician’s fingers slipped between the two Immortal bodies, deftly unbuttoning Duncan’s shirt and pulling it away. Two sets of hands quickly took advantage of this, one set teasing Duncan’s nipples, the other running exploring fingers down to his waist--Duncan quickly lost track of who was doing what. All he knew was that it was Methos who continued to kiss him while Joe murmured appreciatively against his back. From time to time he felt a rough beard brush his skin as Joe softly ran his lips over his shoulder blades, and that was incredible, a feeling as erotic as it was strange. When Joe finally stepped back, Duncan once again tried to break the kiss with Methos so he could include the musician more fully, but Joe just clapped a hand against Duncan’s shoulder. “You two keep on,” he said. “I’m just going to go make myself more comfortable. And enjoy the view.”

“View?”

“He means us, Duncan,” Methos answered, amused. “I imagine that the two of us have starred together in Joe’s fantasy life for quite some time now. Am I right, Joe?” 

“You have no idea,” was Joe’s somewhat breathy reply. 

Methos chuckled softly. Slowly, teasingly, he ran a finger down Duncan’s bare chest and over his jeans until he was touching Duncan’s erection for the first time, brushing it lightly through the denim. Duncan groaned. God, he was so hard already, and the knowledge that Joe was watching this just made it that much hotter. He twisted his head to look at the couch. Joe was watching them intently, looking straight at the two Immortals with an unashamed, lusty hunger. And with one hand he was lazily stroking the bulge beneath his own pants.

Duncan couldn’t help himself. He gasped, gaze riveted on that stroking hand. Methos, whose sharp eyes had witnessed both Joe’s actions and Duncan’s reaction, smirked knowingly. “I think something over there has managed to attract your attention, hasn’t it, Highlander,” he said. “If you asked nicely, I bet Joe would give us both a better look.” 

Joe’s hand stilled. “Oh, no,” he said, looking embarrassed. “This is Mac’s night. I really don’t think…”

“I’d like to see you, Joe,” Duncan interrupted. “It’s, um…I mean, I want…” Joe looked startled, and Duncan flushed, groping through his embarrassment to find the words that would express his wanting. “I couldn't stop looking at you, the night I walked in on you and Methos in the bar,” he finished quietly. “I’d really like to see you again.”

“Fuck,” Joe breathed. He looked as though he didn’t quite believe this was really happening. But he lifted his hand to his fly and started undoing it, easing the fabric down over his erection. And Duncan’s mouth went dry.

Beautiful. Thick hard cock, circumcised head flaring proudly to meet Duncan’s appreciative gaze;. The smallest drop of pre-come was just beginning to form at the tip, and Duncan’s tongue licked out hungrily in response. “Gorgeous, isn’t he,” Methos murmured into his ear, and Duncan could only nod in response. Joe’s hand crept back to his lap. He started squeezing and rubbing himself gently while the two Immortals watched. “I think Joe would appreciate a hand with that,” Methos suggested softly. “Why don’t you go give him some help?”

“I—” 

Duncan looked uncertainly at Joe. Fortunately, the Watcher smiled, and moved his hand aside. “I’d like that,” he said, and Duncan could see the welcome in his eyes. “Come here, Mac.”

Duncan took a few shaky steps forward. Then suddenly it was too much for him and he'd thrown himself down at Joe’s feet, sucking that magnificent cock head deeply into his mouth and rubbing it with his tongue. “Jesus Christ,” Joe whispered, sounding more startled than aroused, but Duncan couldn’t stop. God, he’d been so hungry for this for so long, and he hadn’t even known! Duncan knew his technique was more enthusiastic than skilled—Amanda would have known how to draw this out, building Joe’s pleasure moment by moment in a slow wet tease. But Duncan was far too turned on to care. All he could think about was the heat and the texture and the taste, the musk of Joe’s very male arousal in his nose. Hungrily, he began to suck with all his might. 

He heard Methos cross the room, felt warm hands settling on his shoulders as the old Immortal knelt at his side. “Gently,” Methos advised, and Duncan reluctantly slowed his pace—stopped sucking quite so frantically in favor of simply holding Joe in his mouth. Joe moaned softly and placed his hands flat on the couch, giving himself the leverage he needed to thrust lazily in and out between Duncan’s lips. The rhythm of those thrusts was intoxicating. Duncan held his head still as Joe took control, willing partner in his own plundering, so eager to know what it would feel like when Joe came. But Joe only moved a few more times before he suddenly pushed Duncan away. Duncan swayed, feeling both hurt and confused. “Joe?”

Joe sounded very strained. “Yeah, Mac?”

“Did I do something wrong?”

Methos chuckled. Joe shook his head. “God, no,” he said. “I just don’t have an Immortal’s stamina, that’s all.” 

“I don’t understand.”

“No. I guess you wouldn’t, would you.” Joe looked at him fondly. “You were about two seconds away from making me come, that's all. And I’m pretty much good for only once a night these days, so…”

“Oh.” 

Disappointment filled him. Duncan knew he didn’t have a right to ask Joe to change his mind. It was selfish to ask him to come so soon, just because Duncan wanted to watch. But then Methos spoke, and he sounded just as needy as Duncan felt. “I don’t think Duncan can afford to wait, Joe,” Methos said. “And I know I sure as hell can’t.” He leaned forward. “Come for us. Please?”

Joe had that disbelieving look on his face again, and for a moment Duncan was sure he was going to say no. But then the mortal nodded, slowly dropping his hand to his shaft. He started rubbing, slowly, the erotic tension in the room growing with every stroke. Methos endured it for several heartbeats before he batted Joe’s hand aside, bending down to lick hungrily along one side of Joe’s shaft. “Help me, Duncan,” Methos murmured, and Duncan hurried to comply. Together, he and Methos licked and sucked, their tongues occasionally tangling sweetly around Joe’s flesh as they did. The mortal body beneath them started to shudder and buck. “Oh, god,” Joe groaned. “Both of you…I never thought…you don’t know how long I…oh, fuck.” Joe gripped the couch cushions hard with his hands. “Fuck...” 

“Yes,” Methos said darkly. He straightened up and wrapped a hand around Joe’s shaft, beginning a quick, rhythmic pump. His help no longer necessary, Duncan was suddenly free to do nothing but watch, but he didn’t know where to look—at Joe’s beautiful, awed face, or at the glistening, saliva-slicked cock that suddenly began to spurt. The first gush hit Duncan in the face, streaking along his cheek. He got his mouth around Joe’s crown in time to taste the second, and that solved the problem of where to look: his passionate gaze locked with Joe’s startled one, at least until the final, much weaker spurt dribbled into Duncan’s mouth, and the Watcher slumped bonelessly into the couch. “Oh,” Joe said. He didn’t seem able to come up with anything more.

Duncan gently suckled away the last of Joe’s come and sat back on his knees. Methos was leaning against the couch with his long legs sprawled over the floor, hazel eyes regarding Duncan with an intensity that instantly made Duncan all too aware of his own unsatisfied arousal. “Well now,” the other Immortal said softly. “That was something I never expected to see.” 

“Tell me about it,” Joe said from the couch. “That was incredible, Mac. Never in my wildest dreams…” He shook his head wearily. “Methos, kiss him breathless for me, would you? I’d do it myself, but I think my brain has melted.”

Methos smiled a secretive smile and leaned in toward Duncan…but he didn’t kiss the Highlander’s lips. He just ran a slow finger through the creamy mess Duncan had forgotten was still on his cheek and brought it to his mouth. Duncan shuddered as he watched, absolutely hypnotized by the way the old Immortal’s eyes closed, the pleasure on his face as he licked Joe’s fluids from his hand. “God, Methos,” Duncan whispered. “Please. I need…”

“Shhh,” Methos said soothingly. “It’s all right, Highlander. I know what you need.” He leaned in closer, this time brushing Duncan’s lips with his own. Duncan groaned and opened his mouth. Once again Methos’s tongue entered him, sharing the lingering taste of Joe on his tongue. Duncan could taste the flavor faintly, and the knowledge that Methos had to be tasting it even more strongly in Duncan’s own mouth filled him with both desire and a deep sense of belonging. He sucked luxuriantly on Methos’s tongue, until the other Immortal broke away. “But first, I think we had better take this someplace a little more comfortable,” Methos said, sounding a little unsteady. “Joe?”

“Lead the way.”

It took nearly fifteen minutes to traverse the short distance down Joe’s hallway to his master bedroom. First Duncan would give into his new found fascination for Methos’s mouth to stop the man with a kiss. Then, when Methos needed to break for air, Duncan would pass him on to Joe, and Methos and Joe would kiss each other while Duncan watched hungrily, until Joe needed air and passed Methos back to Duncan, and the whole cycle would begin again. When they did finally arrive, Joe pulled Duncan onto the bed. Methos stripped down to his jeans, yanking off his sweatshirt and toeing off his boots before he eeled up the bed to join them, muscles working like a panther’s. He stretched out behind Duncan, and the feeling of his naked chest against Duncan’s bare back was bliss itself. The three of them stayed like that, trading kisses and running slow, wondering hands over each other’s torsos, for what seemed a long, languorous time. 

Eventually, though, Duncan’s need built to the point where he needed something more. He started shifting restlessly in place. When Methos’s exploring hand once again brushed Duncan’s erection through his jeans, he had to grit his teeth in order to stay still. “I was wondering when you were going to remember we still had this to take care of,” Methos said with amusement. “Are you ready for more, Highlander?”

“I think you know I am.” Methos smiled and began to ease Duncan’s zipper down, carefully avoiding catching the hard cock underneath. Joe sat up to get a better view, propping himself against the headboard as Methos got up went to the foot of the bed to pull Duncan’s jeans the rest of the way off. 

Duncan watched the operation through hooded eyes, thinking deeply. He knew now that Methos’s earlier offer of “anything you desire” was absolutely true. In mere seconds, just for the asking, he could have Methos’s skillful fingers or his hot, sensual mouth bringing him to orgasm, and Duncan already knew the experience would outdo his wildest fantasies. But he wanted something more than that. Something deeper. Something he'd spent the last hundred-plus years regretting he'd never had the courage to do with Darius. When Methos had successfully maneuvered his jeans past his ankles and dropped the garment to the floor Duncan sat up too, propping himself on his elbows. “Methos?” 

“Yes, Highlander?”

“Do you want to fuck me?”

There was a long silence. Next to him, Joe suddenly went very poker-faced. Methos looked startled. “Have you ever?” he asked. Duncan shook his head. Methos sighed, caressing Duncan’s thighs. “We do like to take our new experiences in big bites, don’t we, Highlander,” he said. “Very well, then. Since you asked…yes. Yes, I do. Considerably. However...” He looked searchingly at Joe. “Joe?”

“I think Mac’s more than old enough to know what wants,” Joe answered softly. “And if you’re asking for my permission, you don’t have to. We’re not about that, Methos. We never have been.” Methos nodded heavily, still looking torn. “Besides,” Joe continued, voice deepening, becoming immeasurably more erotic, “I think between the two of us, we can give Mac one hell of a first time. Don’t you?”

“Oh yeah,” Duncan breathed, answering in Methos’s place. “I know you can.” He twisted around, pulling Joe in for a passionate kiss. 

When they came up for air, Methos was watching them closely. “Very well,” he said, and to Duncan it seemed that the old Immortal was working very hard to keep his voice steady. “Joe? Where’s the lube?”

“In the bathroom cabinet, like always,” Joe answered. Methos gave a businesslike nod and went to fetch it. 

It seemed to Duncan that Methos took a very long time to come back. When he did, Duncan could see the nervousness written in every line of Methos’s face. The old Immortal actually seemed more apprehensive than Duncan did, and that knowledge made the few doubts Duncan had left quickly flee. He left Joe to sit on the edge of the bed, welcoming Methos with a gentler version of the kiss he’d just given Joe. A bit of the older Immortal’s tension faded as he did, and Duncan smiled to himself as he reached to undo Methos’s jeans, breaking the kiss as he pushed the fabric away from Methos’s cock. There was a brief silence as both men looked down at Methos’s erection. Then Duncan leaned down and rubbed it with his cheek. “Thank you,” he said simply.

“Believe me, Highlander. The pleasure is all mine,” Methos said distractedly. Duncan smiled again and let his tongue lick out to taste the silken flesh, drinking in the difference between Joe and Methos’s flavors. “Better not. I’m much too close as it is,” Methos said. Duncan nodded in understanding and pulled back. Methos took a deep breath. “Go to Joe,” he said. “Let him hold you. While I make you ready.”

“Yes.”

Duncan scooted back on the bed, where Joe was waiting with welcoming arms. He leaned his back against the mortal's chest, letting Joe support him while he pulled up his knees, shamelessly spreading his buttocks and exposing everything he had to Methos’s view. Methos shook his head. “Dear god,” he murmured. “Joe, do you see?”

“Yeah.” Joe answered. “Yeah, I see. He’s beautiful. Just like I always pictured him being.”

“He’s better than I pictured,” Methos answered. “He’s more than beautiful—he’s downright breathtaking. Amazing cock, full round balls, and this arse…” He reached out a hand, caressing Duncan’s buttocks before lightly brushed his entrance. The touch was electric. Duncan groaned and bit down on his lip. Methos reached for the lube. “Joe?”

“Yes, Methos?”

“Mind if I make a complete mess of your bed sheets?”

“Of course not,” Joe said. “They’ll wash. And even if they don’t, I’ll just buy new ones. For this, I’d by a whole damn linen store.” Methos chuckled and upended the bottle. A second later, Duncan felt its contents: oil, cool and slick and erotic as a kiss, dripping onto his nipples and trickling down to his stomach. He had no idea what kind of magical concoction the stuff was in that bottle, but it felt incredible, smoother and more slippery than any massage oil he’d ever used. Methos painted a wet, sexy trail drop by drop from Duncan's chest down to his abdomen, then poured what felt like a small river right where it would do the most good. The oil cascaded around the base of Duncan’s cock and dribble wetly between his ass cheeks to the bed. Duncan groaned at the wet, goopy, beautifully sexy sensation, then groaned again when he felt Methos’s strong hands massage the excess into his chest. “Beautiful indeed,” Methos said admiringly. “You look good dressed in nothing but a sheen of lubricant, Highlander. If I had the patience, I’d rub this into you everywhere. Make you feel me in every inch of your skin, not just…” he brushed Duncan’s pucker with an oily fingertip, causing Duncan to jump and groan... “here. But I really, really don’t want to wait. And somehow I don’t think you do, either.”

“No,” Duncan groaned his agreement, spreading his legs wider still. “No, waiting is a very bad idea. Don’t make me do it.” 

“No.” Methos almost sounded sad. His hand returned to the place Duncan craved, circling, stroking, touching. And then suddenly his finger was slipping inside. 

The shock of the intrusion was overwhelming. Duncan closed his eyes and arched his back, mouth working helplessly. God. Was it supposed to feel like this, just from one finger? Was there supposed to be so much sensation, so much heat? “Bear down,” Methos whispered, and Duncan sobbed as he complied—feeling a second finger join the first as Methos rubbed his hot, tight rim with his other hand, gently but firmly persuading the tense muscles to soften. “Again,” Methos said, and Duncan pushed with all his might—feeling the incredibly odd sensation of his ass pushing outward to envelope Methos’ fingers, then collapsing around them as he relaxed. Gripping the fingers hard, pulling them deeper. So deep… 

“Easy now,” Methos said tensely. “You don’t have to be the mighty Highland warrior now, MacLeod. Take a minute to get used to it.” Duncan nodded and did his best—tried to hold still and let his mind get used to the feeling of violation, even as his body insisted that it wanted more. Methos held still for a few more moments. Then he began a gentle scissoring motion, stretching him even further apart while Duncan’s ass rippled around his fingers, pulsing and contracting without Duncan’s conscious volition. It felt like it took a hundred years. But eventually he relaxed enough for Methos to slide in a third finger, then a fourth, and all Duncan could do was shake and grip Joe’s forearms tightly as the sensations thundered through him. So open. He felt so goddamn open, like his entire body was hollow now that Methos had breached him so completely. Surely all Methos had to do was slip his fingers slightly deeper and he’d be reaching all the way up into Duncan’s heart. Duncan sobbed again, a harsh, broken sound, and felt Methos’s hand still. “Highlander?”

“I’m all right,” Duncan hurriedly assured. “It’s just so...intense.” He gave a rueful little laugh, and then sucked in his breath as even that small movement caused new pleasures to ripple deep inside his body. “God only knows how I’m going to stand it when you’re actually in me.”

“Oh, you’ll stand it, Highlander,” Joe said softly, wrapping his arms around Duncan more tightly still. “Methos gives more to his lovers than any man I’ve ever known. You may feel like he’s breaking you apart with pleasure, and you might dance at the very edge of blacking out just because it’s so damn good, but you won’t. You won’t, because it’s the best thing you’ll ever feel in your life, and you won’t want to miss a single second of it. Trust me. I know.” He looked at Methos, eyes shining wetly. “I know, because that’s how I feel whenever he’s in me.”

“Joe,” Methos whispered, and despite the fact that he still had a very aroused Highlander half impaled on his hand, he leant awkwardly forward and met Joe’s lips over Duncan’s shoulder. Duncan watched, getting even more aroused by the love that crackled between them, and when the kiss broke he felt ridiculously pleased that the first thing Joe did was twist Duncan’s head in his hands so he could plant an equally passionate kiss on Duncan’s mouth. “Well,” Methos said lustily when Joe finished, gently rippling his fingers inside Duncan’s body. “It seems like Joe has given me quite a reputation to live up to. Are you ready to see if I’m worthy of it, Highlander?”

“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t already know you were.” Duncan answered. 

A look of deep surprise crossed the old Immortal’s face. Duncan frowned. Was it possible that he wasn’t the only one who had been unsure of his welcome here? Given some of the things that had happened between them in the last few years, Duncan supposed Methos’s earlier nervousness suddenly made perfect sense. He looked deeply into Methos’s eyes, willing him to see his desire, his trust. “You are, you know,” he said softly. “Worthy.” He gently eased himself off of Methos’s fingers, groaning a little at the sudden feeling of emptiness. Then he laid himself down in the very center of the bed, bringing up his knees as he braced his feet against the mattress. “And I want you. Honestly. I always have.”

“You…” For a second Methos looked completely speechless. But he crawled over Duncan’s body, taking his weight on his magnificently muscled arms as he aligned their pelvises. “I think I’ve wanted *you* since before you were even born, Highlander,” he murmured. And slowly pressed his way inside.

Duncan’s head rolled back against the mattress as he cried out his surprise. Breaking him apart with pleasure…yes, oh yes, Joe’s words had been right on the mark. He was startled to discover that a part of him had wanted there to be at least a little pain, some sharpness of sensation to delineate this moment from the four hundred years of life that had come before. It suddenly seemed like such a stupid thing to have hung onto his virginity for so many centuries, if there wasn’t to be even a little brutality involved in its disposal. But there wasn’t. All he felt was slickness, and heat, and wave after wave of glorious pleasure as Methos gently eased into his body, filling an aching hollowness Duncan hadn’t even known he had. Inch by inch, Methos pressed deeper, rubbing hard against Duncan’s slick inner walls. He looked down at Duncan with an expression that was almost awed, drinking in the lines of Duncan’s glistening body. Above them, Joe moved closer and softly touched Duncan’s sweaty shoulder, looking down at the two of them affectionately. “Are you in him?” he asked.

“Yes.” Methos sounded dazed. “Yes, Joe, I’m in him.”

“Is it good?”

“Oh god,” Methos groaned. “God, Joe, so good. You wouldn’t believe…” 

He began a soft, rolling motion with his hips, the gentlest of all possible plundering. Duncan almost levitated off the bed, the sensation was so intense. Was this what Darius had felt, so long ago? Methos arched into him and withdrew, but the place where his cock was breaching Duncan’s body was only a tenth of the sensation. It felt like he was lying on the shore of a beach with the waves crashing over him, except that the waves were inside his flesh. He literally felt the pleasure everywhere, rising and falling like the tide, and the slow pace was going to kill him. Duncan tried to ask for more, but his voice came out as a helpless whine. He tossed his head against the bed in sheer frustration.

Fortunately, Joe understood. “Stop teasing, Methos,” he said sharply. “Mac’s more than ready for you now. Fuck him hard, you don’t have to hold back. Give him what he needs.”

“I…wasn’t…holding…back,” Methos gasped. “You’ll understand when you have him, Joe. He’s overwhelming…I couldn’t move faster if I tried…” But he stopped the rolling motion and began a sharp, staccato thrust instead. Duncan almost sobbed in gratitude. He pushed hard with his feet against the bed, causing both of them to cry out as Methos sank even deeper into his flesh, and then Duncan clenched down with his inner muscles as hard as he could. Methos froze utterly, then gave a rough, almost vicious thrust. Duncan lifted his arms and dug his fingers sharply into Methos’s lovely back, groaning his approval. *Yes* was the exultant emotion that pounded through his mind, too strong and tangled to really qualify as words. *Yes. This is what I need, at last. Give it to me…* 

Methos looked down at him incredulously. But he seemed to read the emotion in Duncan’s eyes, because he thrust again, even harder and more sharply than before. His lips met Duncan in a harsh, punishing kiss, all restraint gone, truly fucking the Highlander now with everything he had in him. And his hand reached down to squeeze Duncan’s cock.

Duncan came.

He came so hard it shocked him. Pinpricks of light sparkled at the edge of his vision, come jetted furiously into Methos’s belly. Methos groaned, fucked feverishly for a few more strokes, and came right after him…wringing yet another spasm from Duncan’s overworked cock as wetness flooded his inner walls. They hung together for a timeless moment, united in bliss, every muscle stretched to its limit…

...and then just as suddenly as the moment had come it was over, leaving just an echo of the exquisite pleasure within their tired bodies. Methos lowered himself onto Duncan carefully, head resting on Duncan’s chest. His body felt absolutely limp in Duncan’s arms, all the hard, honed muscles of his shoulders soft and relaxed under Duncan’s caressing fingertips. Joe was lying on his side now, head propped in his hand as he watched. For a second Duncan felt a frisson of the old fear return, the one that said he was interfering here, that he didn’t really belong. But there was no disapproval in Joe’s gaze. Just affection, and a lot of satisfaction. “Yeah,” the musician said, nodding his head. “I think that was just about right.”

Methos carefully lifted his tired body off of Duncan, stretching out on Duncan’s other side. “High praise indeed,” he said as his head fell wearily into the pillow. “Duncan, that’s what Joe always says after his best performances, the ones where every single note he plays rings true and the audience is so enthralled they want to follow him home. ‘Just about right’ is as close to admitting things were perfect as Joe ever gets.”

“Well, there’s always room for improvement,” Joe said with a twinkle. “And in this case, I think the three of us have a lot of rehearsing to do. Just to make sure we get things *absolutely* right.” His gaze grew wistful as it fell across Duncan’s face. “Assuming that Mac wants to stick around for a while, that is. Doesn’t have any place more important to be…”

Duncan shook his head. “I’m not going anywhere, Joe,” he answered. “I’m home.”

And he was.

The End

“And it’s a winding road  
And it’s a long way home  
So don’t wait  
For someone to tell you  
It’s too late  
Because these are the best days…  
There’s always something tomorrow  
So I say  
Let’s make the best of tonight...  
Here comes the rest of our lives.”

~Graham Colton Band, “Best Days”

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written in 2009. Edited and archived February 2015.


End file.
